


Split-Half Reliability

by Phnx



Series: Liminality [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Harry is unaware of Tom's presence when he dates Ginny, Hogwarts Era, M/M, Multi, Possession, character-driven, endgame Tom/Harry, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phnx/pseuds/Phnx
Summary: Ginny navigates life after her humiliating first year in Hogwarts. Along the way, she discovers that she’s much less alone than she thought she was, and she has to learn how to make peace with the teenaged, wannabe Dark Lord who's taken up a permanent residence in her head.
Relationships: Diary Tom Riddle & Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Diary Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle & Ginny Weasley
Series: Liminality [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935538
Comments: 33
Kudos: 187





	1. Year Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prequel to Liminality, but it’s written with the expectation that Liminality was read first.
> 
> Here, I have skillfully created a fic that will please absolutely no one. Are you here for the Harry / Ginny tag? This series is endgame Tom / Harry, and that’s reflected at points in this fic. Are you here for the Tom / Harry tag? This fic is primarily Tom & Ginny, with a Harry/Ginny and some one-sided Tom/Harry. Are you here looking for a great plot? This fic is plotless; it’s a Ginny & Tom character study based on the premise What If Tom Riddle Lived on in Ginny Post CoS. Are you here because you read Liminality, so you want to find out the deets on how Tom Marvolo Riddle mutates into Fit Tom from the Pub? This fic is short, and it’s all in Ginny’s POV. 
> 
> So... Why have I written 11K+ words that are so disappointing to such a broad audience? The first scene of the first chapter was the catalyst to this whole series, so it seemed wrong to leave it unwritten. Once I’d written that, it felt right to add snippets from Ginny’s other Hogwarts years, too. This fic was also a lot of run to write, especially the scenes that take place before Tom becomes a conscious presence in Ginny’s mind.

Ginny remembers it. 

"You were unconscious the whole time, Ginny," Ron scoffs, so Ginny stops insisting.

But she remembers it.

The Chamber was dark and cavernous, and there was the soft dripping noise of water leaking into puddles all around. The air was damp, and there was the smell of mould everywhere.

Harry was kneeling above a dark-robed body, filthy, his hair a wild mess. He was saying something, his tone increasingly desperate. Increasingly frightened.

Ginny wasn't frightened. Ginny was delighted.

Then, the massive snake. The phoenix, the Hat, the sword.

Ginny was laughing. She was stroking the holly wand—Harry Potter's wand, so curiously similar to her own. It felt illicit to be touching it. She wondered what she could do with it, how far she could push it.

Then, agony as the venom leaked through the pages of her diary. She felt herself flicker, her connection to the world snapped. A force was pulling at her. She struggled, but she couldn't stop it. It dragged her, and then she was gone.

She woke up in the hospital wing.

"Amazing that you've recovered so quickly," said Madame Pomphrey, eying the results of her diagnostic spells critically. "Your magical core was so drained that I'm amazed that you didn't—that you're—That is, it's simply splendid to see that you're doing so well, my dear. You're remarkably resilient."

Ginny smiled politely. She had come to the hospital wing earlier in the year to visit the petrified Hermione, but for some reason, she kept thinking that Hogwarts's mediwitch was supposed to be someone else, not Madame Pomphrey at all.

The occasional bouts of disorientation aside, Ginny came through a year of being possessed by Lord Voldemort with no worse damage than extreme humiliation, a complete lack of friends, and a slight queasiness around roosters.

Better than what she'd heard of Quirrel; though, in all fairness, the version of Voldemort who'd possessed him wasn't the cute teenaged boy with the diary. Probably, the two experiences couldn't be compared at all.

And so, she heads off to her second year of schooling with an incomplete memory of her first. As she looks for a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, she decides that the thing to do is make friends. The humiliation will pass as she demonstrates that she's above the teasing and sneering of what happened last year, and, well, she got rather good at avoiding roosters over the summer, so it's really the friendships that are the important issue. A part of her shivers with nerves at the thought. But, she reminds herself firmly, it's important to cultivate connections if she wants to get ahead in life, and she does, she absolutely does.

Girls are the easiest, she recalls vaguely. They always seem so flattered when she pays attention to them.

She finds a compartment of second-year Ravenclaw girls and flashes them her infamously charming smile. "Do you mind if I join you?" she asks.

The girls seem startled. "Come on in," one of them—Falvry, yes, that's her name, good family, too bad they're so stolidly neutral—says cautiously. "Weasley, right?"

Beside Falvry, Brigid O'Connor gives a nervous giggle. The other girls shush her.

"That's right," replies Ginny, smiling at everyone. "Please, call me Ginny."

Ginevra would be better—but no, everyone already knows that she goes by Ginny.

"Elvira," says Falvry.

"Brigid."

"Diana."

"Cigfa."

Ginny's attempts at friendly flirting do not go as she planned.

"Er, thank you," says Brigid. "Sorry, didn't you fancy Potter?"

Ginny's heart seems to stop, and when it restarts, it makes up for the lost time by going quadruple its normal speed. Yes. _Yes._ That's what this feeling is, this fascination and this lightheadedness and this need for his attention. She doesn't chastise herself for not noticing; after all, she's never fancied anyone before—she's fancied Harry since she first saw him at the barrier leading to Platform 9 ¾—so these feelings are completely new to her—so these feelings are so well-established that she almost forgets about them sometimes.

"Yes," she says to the compartment at large, powering through her flushed cheeks with all the Gryffindor— _cunning_ —she has in her. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I was just being friendly."

The other girls exchange glances.

"Well," says Cigfa. "It is very obvious that you picked up your social skills from your older brothers."

The compartment bursts into giggles.

Ginny very carefully doesn't scowl. "To be clear, I was being completely genuine," she tells Brigid sweetly. "Just because I fancy Harry doesn't mean I've gone blind."

Brigid smiles at her, cheeks slightly pink. "Well, thank you." She pauses, then seems to make a decision and says wryly, "And I suppose it's not as startling as being told that I have the jawline of a blue-spotted mandible."

Diana sneers. "Luna Lovegood strikes again. I hope she wandered off into the woods somewhere over the summer and didn't come back out again."

"I'm not sure why someone like that would even bother coming to school," agrees Elvira. Her nose wrinkles delicately.

Cigfa sighs. "She's very distracting to those of us who want a _normal_ education."

The girls all look at Ginny, waiting for her reaction.

Ginny thinks back to what she remembers of Lovegood. Not much. Long, tangled blond hair, absurd jewelry, absent eyes. A very convenient target. Nothing forges alliances like a common enemy.

"Luna…" she muses aloud. "Luna… Oh, you must mean Loony!" The girls burst into laughter. "Isn't that right?" asks Ginny innocently. "Loony Lovegood? I'm sure that was her name."

"That's perfect," gasps Brigid. "Oh, you're completely right, Ginny!"

"Loony Lovegood!" Elvira's dark eyes are glowing. "That's so perfect!"

Watching the girls, Ginny feels her stomach drop guiltily. Though she’d felt so easy a moment before, she suddenly can't help but feel ashamed at herself for dropping the strange blonde in front of the train like that.

"But actually," she says, a little abruptly. "I think she's hilarious. I mean, I do try not to spend more than a few minutes around her at a time…"

"Please, try sharing a dorm with her," says Diana. "She's just dreadful."

"Her and her ridiculous creatures, and those… those things she's always collecting and wearing!"

"Insect earrings, necklaces of dead grass…"

"What a nightmare!"

"Still," says Ginny blithely. "It's nice to have a few bonkers people running about. Otherwise, how am I supposed to entertain myself this year, now that I'm no longer possessed by a cursed diary?"

The invisible dragon in the room thus having been addressed, the girls burst into questions, and Ginny is happy to answer them. She even volunteers a few truths in her carefully constructed story. A diary, a dark, magical diary of some student—unnamed—from half a century ago. Missing memories, fever dreams. The Chamber of Secrets. Dashing, brave Harry Potter rescuing her.

Goal achieved, she thinks to herself smugly.

A few dementors later, the Express pulls into Hogsmeade station, and Ginny separates from the Ravenclaw girls, promising to meet up with them again soon.

She makes her way to the horseless carriages and runs straight into Luna Lovegood.

Ginny feels herself flush with shame. "We were talking about you on the train," she blurts out. "Not very—not kind things. I called you Loony Lovegood, and I think I started a thing. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Luna stares up at her with huge, unblinking eyes. "'Loony,'" she repeats. Her voice is high and sweet. "That's rather clever."

"Would you like to sit together in one of the carriages?" Ginny asks, feeling desperately awkward.

"Alright," says Luna merrily. She takes Ginny's hand in hers. "Do you read the _Quibbler_?"

"I don't think I have, no," Ginny admits as they walk to a carriage together. She catches sight of Elvira, Brigid, Diana, and Cigfa making their way to their own carriage. Diana mouths "Good luck" at her, and points to Luna meaningfully. Ginny smiles back weakly.

"It has a lot to say about what happened at the school last year," says Luna brightly. "I'll explain it to you."

And then Ginny hears her own story told in the most wildly inaccurate way possible. A part of her wants to sneer, but she pushes that urge down and simply lets herself be entertained.

"That's not at all how I remember it happening," she tells Luna. "But I think I like your version better."

Luna smiles at her. "I do, too."

Ginny never grows as close to Elvira and the others as she has planned, but she keeps up with them and meets them to study regularly.

And, somehow, she also stays friendly with Luna. They greet each other pleasantly in the hall, they occasionally sit beside one another in lessons, and Ginny even spends the rare Sunday afternoon with Luna hunting in the tall grasses behind Hagrid's hut for Miniature Sundrop Mammoths.

_All in all, not too bad._

It’s a good year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some clarification for interested parties:** Tom isn’t really awake or self-aware yet. The backlash from losing the diary and being snapped into Ginny left him weak. What Ginny’s reacting to in this chapter are the new memories and impulses that she now has access to, without recognising what they are or where they came from.


	2. Year Three

Fury licks its way through Ginny’s entire body. She does her best not to hurl it at Neville—he’s so sweet, and she was so pleased at the time that he’d asked her.

But to think that she could have gone to the Ball with _Harry_. Lovely Harry, with his hair flopping around his face in the front and sticking up in the back. Harry, with his eyes so bright and startling against his skin. She imagines what it would have felt like to have his hands on her as they twirl through the elaborately decorated hall. He would be smiling at her. Those green eyes would be finally focussed on her alone. She’d lift a hand and press it to the side of his face. She’d let her thumb stroke along his cheekbone as she tugged him toward her, tilting his face up—down— _up_ — _down_ —fine, _over_ , and then, and then—

Ginny grabs a book and hurls it at the wall.

Stupid Ron. Couldn’t he have had his epiphany weeks ago? If only _any_ of her other brothers were Harry’s best friend and confidant, Ginny’s certain they would have already dropped the idea into Harry’s head.

You need a date? Why not Ginny? You know her, you’re comfortable enough with her. You could go as friends!

She could have worked with that.

She had assumed that Ron had already mentioned it, and that Harry had simply refused because it would be uncomfortable to go on a date with his best friend’s younger sister, even as friends. But no, Ron hadn’t even tried!

Stupid, _stupid_ Ron.

Ginny is never speaking to him again.

* * *

“Anyway,” Ginny overhears Parvati telling Lavender and Padma in the Gryffindor common room. “I don’t see why Mum is complaining. _Dad_ is Indian.” Parvati pouts.

“And wasn’t Harry raised all English?” asks Padma. “I doubt he even knows what’s going on between magical Bangladesh and magical India right now.”

“I’m not sure Harry knows what’s going on with anything,” says Lavender in a shocking fit of hypocrisy. She’s still bitter that Parvati and Padma are the dates of Harry and Ron, then.

Ginny wants to be irritated at Lavender, but the truth is, it’s a fairly accurate description of Harry. Harry is always very _focussed_. He never notices what’s happening around him unless it’s the precise thing he’s attending to. And he never attends to the social climate around him unless it’s to note that, once again, everyone hates him for something beyond his control. 

Ginny’s heart aches for him. She’ll find out how his name came to be drawn from that worthless goblet, and whoever is responsible will _know pain_.

“That’s so true,” says Parvati.

Padma raises her eyebrows. “Not that anyone else in this school knows, either. I’m not sure that our classmates have even _heard_ of Northeast India, never mind know anything about the land dispute happening between two foreign magical governments.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” says Parvati meaningfully. “It’s completely unfair of Mum to be saying that our Bangladeshi family will be upset when _she_ married an Indian, too. And he’s _Harry Potter_!”

Ginny rolls her eyes.

“What are his dress robes like?” asks Lavender eagerly. “What are _Ron’s_ like?”

“Green,” says Ginny. The older girls jump as though they’ve only just noticed her lounging with a book on the couch next over. “And hideous.”

Parvati sniffs. “They’d better not be.” The girls pointedly turn away from Ginny and begin discussing their own dress robes in nauseating detail.

Ginny flips her book shut and stands up to leave. She tucks her hands into her robe pockets so that no one will see that they’re shaking in anger.

To think that Harry is going to the ball with that brainless idiot who doesn’t like him for anything more than his fame when he could be going with her! Ginny would make him feel as wonderful and as special as he deserves. Ginny would—

She stomps into her dorm and collapses into her four poster, seething.

Stupid Ron.

* * *

As it turns out, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise that she doesn’t go to the Yule Ball with Harry. She peaks over Neville’s shoulder, wincing as he steps on her foot yet again, and spots Harry, hiding out by the fountain with Ron while Parvati glowers at him.

Parvati and Harry had looked so perfect together, too, when they’d first entered. Ginny had felt her heart shatter as she watched them twirling together.

And now…

Ginny looks back at Neville with a smile. Clearly Harry simply isn’t mature enough for a girlfriend— _boyfriend_ — _girlfriend_ yet. Fine. Ginny’s perfectly capable of waiting.

* * *

Ron tells her everything over summer holiday.

It was You Know Who. Of course it was.

He arranged it all: he had Harry’s name put in the goblet, he had Harry kidnapped, he _stole Harry’s blood_.

Ginny wants to _wreak_ him for touching what’s hers.

And—snake-faced? Ginny’s stomach turns over in disgust. You Know Who isn’t supposed to be snake-faced. That’s just a rumour, just a lie that the fools of this post-war world told themselves as a means of comfort. Of course the enemy looks like a monster.

No, You Know Who is supposed to be handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes and a charming smile, eternally young due to his ingenious preservation of his soul.

Ginny thinks that something must have gone terribly wrong.

* * *

Grimmauld Place seems uncomfortably familiar.

Ginny doesn’t like Sirius Black. He’s wild, unstable, and occasionally a little frightening in his intensity. She avoids him whenever she can, which is often, because Sirius Black spends just as much time trying to avoid everyone else.

The portrait of Walburga Black begins shrieking again, and Ginny shivers. She wants to go home, not spend all day cleaning this miserable, destroyed old house.

_It was once one of the greatest wizarding abodes in London. All of the great families fought for the honour of being invited to these hallowed halls._

Be that as may be, it’s nothing great now.

The portrait quiets, and Ginny tiptoes past it, hoping not to set it off again.

_She was so beautiful, so refined. The grace of any party._

A wistfulness washes over Ginny.

Well, old Walburga is the shame of _this_ party, she thinks to herself firmly.

_Yes. How the mighty fall._

How the mighty fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **What’s going on in Ginny’s head?** Ginny has a crush on Harry. Tom—who is slowly becoming self-aware—is dragged along on her emotional rush, unknowingly contributing to it with his own brand of obsession. What comes out is a Ginny whose crush is a little extra possessive and a Tom who is experiencing someone else’s crush—on someone he is fascinated by—as though it’s his own.
> 
>  **Why the whole Patil & Brown conversation?** From a characterisation perspective (and the character journey is the whole point of this fic), this was to illustrate Ginny’s internal reactions to: (a) her own jealousy, (b) people she thinks of as idiots, and (c) her own jealousy at people she thinks of as idiots having something/someone that she feels a claim over. From a non-characterisation perspective, this was to bring up:
> 
>  **Magical Bangladesh and Magical India:** As far as I know, everything described here bears no resemblance to the actual relationship between Bangladesh and India. This was intentional. Canon leaves the impression that the sociopolitical relations between magical nations mirrors that of muggle nations to a degree (e.g., Wizarding War alliances and World War alliances); however, I prefer to think that the magical international relations are actually wildly different from muggle ones. Why would they be similar? The magical world (at least the British one) has a completely different set of consumer products which require completely different natural and industrial resources. That _has_ to mess with the international economy, surely. And so I had Parvati and Padma discuss an international disagreement that only exists (to my knowledge) in the magical world. Because Parvati is part of this conversation, it is centred on boiz.
> 
>  **Sirius:** I’m aware that Ginny told us in canon that she liked Sirius. However, no matter how brash and rebellious Ginny is, I can’t imagine her liking the escaped convict immediately on introduction, especially given that she meets him by being relocated to his grimy, creepy townhouse.


	3. Year Four

Umbridge is awful, but Ginny feels incredible. There are constant opportunities to show off her skills—in front of _Harry_ , even. She finally feels as though she’s coming into her own.

_You’re holding your wand wrong._

Ginny manages not to scowl, but it’s a close call. She’s been arguing with herself a lot lately. Well, not just lately. Ginny has always struggled with internal conflict. The difference is, recently it seems as though her conflict has been split into two sides: her—or who she thinks of as her, anyway—and an enemy, who pops up with frequent doubts about herself, cruel asides about the people around her, and, worst of all, _unwarranted criticisms of her magical abilities_.

Ginny stubbornly ignores the internal nagging and keeps her wand grip the same. The mouse at her work station twists into a beautiful, elegant teacup of the sort that Ginny has only ever seen in the windows of shops that she can’t even afford to step inside.

“Excellent work, Miss Weasley. Ten points to Gryffindor,” says Professor McGonagall.

Ginny smiles, neither modest nor preening, though battling parts of her want to be both.

* * *

Ginny watches from the corner as Harry storms into the common room, Hermione and even Ron struggling to keep up.

_‘Storms’ is the correct word, certainly._

The air feels electric as Harry makes a bee-line for his dorm, not looking at anyone. It feels as though lightning could strike at any moment.

And then Harry is gone, and it’s as though a window has been opened, or a smothering blanket that had lain over the whole room has been lifted.

Ginny shivers and returns to her book.

Harry has been… wild this year.

Ginny loves it.

_I love it._

It’s been rare that both halves of her internal conflict agree on anything. Everything has become an argument, down to how to wear her robes and what she wants to eat.

For example: Ginny doesn’t like liquorice wands. She knows she doesn’t like liquorice wands. She has never liked liquorice wands. But after weeks of nagging, she finally acquiesced to the irritating voice in her head and bought a small pack in Hogsmeade. She took one bite and had to spit the rest out. She ended up giving the rest of the pack to one of her dormmates, and she still feels incandescent at the victory—I know what I like—and sulky at the defeat.

_I know what I like, too._

And so those blue moons when all of her is in agreement over something feel important, even when it’s something as small and obvious as the observation that Harry’s manic energy and furious temper—

_—And in particular, the way he pushes his temper down, though he vibrates with it, though it seeps out of him—_

—Yes, exactly, his control—

_—And his loss of it—_

—Is all tremendously, deliciously attractive. That was her point. Harry Potter, always but especially now, is just very attractive, and the tension with which he holds himself now makes her want to stroke her fingers along his neck soothingly, hold him down until he calms beneath her hands. And when he does, she’ll flutter kisses across his lovely face and tell him how wonderful he is, how good he is.

She thinks that’s something he needs to hear.

_His useless friends and that useless Ravenclaw. Don’t they know how to take care of him?_

Ginny wants to defend Ron and Hermione—Cho is quite obviously a lost cause—but she has to admit that they do seem to be rather useless, at least at this. Harry needs special care; he needs care that they don’t seem to know how to give him. Ginny knows how to care for him. Ginny does.

_I do._

* * *

The battle at the ministry is world shattering.

It had been so fun to saunter around with her charmed galleon, blinking innocently up at that toad Umbridge while she trained in Defense right under her unbearable nose. She had felt so smug as her spells in the DA landed, her skills as Seeker and Chaser giving her some of the fastest reflexes in their whole illegal study group.

But fighting in the ministry, fighting against those dark robed, masked monsters who laughed about torturing and murdering teenagers… That wasn’t what she’d been expecting. If anything, she would have thought it would be easier to fight against people like that than against her friends. There’s no need to be concerned that her curse had packed too strong a sting, no need to make sure her opponent is ready for her barrage of hexes. But even now that she’s home and safe with her family, she still feels that hollowing, numbing fear leaking through her.

And even though she’d heard Harry’s stories, seeing You Know—seeing _Voldemort_ , standing there in the flesh, looking like a twisted caricature of a human...

_That’s wrong. He’s wrong._

The voice, her internal enemy, has been quiet since Harry’s false dream took them to the Department of Mysteries to save his godfather, to damn him. The quiet hadn’t been the peace of agreement or a shared common goal or anything like that. It was simply as though the part of her that was so constantly at odds with the rest had taken a step back to observe in silence.

It had been a little lonely.

She scoffs at herself—for missing the irritation, for being confused enough that a part of her needs to state, questioningly and tentatively, that perhaps the world-destroying maniac might be wrong. 

Of course he’s wrong. He’s _You Know Who_. Infamously evil Dark Lord? Kills and tortures people for fun? Ringing any bells?

_He’s not supposed to be like that._

No one is supposed to be like that.

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

Ginny wants to scream. At herself, at this fear, at the world. What? What wasn’t? Sirius wasn’t supposed to die. Voldemort wasn’t supposed to be able to attack the ministry. Voldemort wasn’t supposed to be able to come back from the dead. Voldemort wasn’t supposed to be able to lock a piece of himself into a diary and then let it go around possessing innocent little girls. None of this is supposed to happen. None of this is supposed to be the way it is. Are we just noticing this now?

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

Ginny locks herself into her room and finally gives into the urge and screams into her pillow. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t want to, really. What she wants to do is reach into the heart of their world and reshape it until it isn’t all twisted and wrong like this, until the things that are supposed to happen happen and the things that aren’t don’t.

She’s drifting off to sleep when she hears the voice again. Maybe it’s her semi-conscious state, or maybe it’s something else, but the voice seems stronger, now. Louder.

Stronger. Louder. Closer. And very recognisable.

 _I wasn’t supposed to be like this,_ says Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Ginny doesn’t sleep that night after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **About Tom:** Tom is awake, self-aware, and starting to pull away a little from Ginny. He has different preferences, different likes and dislikes, different motivations. He’s poking and prodding at their shared emotions, trying to figure out what’s from Ginny and what’s from him. He’s learning from her, too—there are emotions that she feels that he never had, and emotions that he’d felt but never known the names to. And as before, Ginny’s own emotions and emotional expression are being influenced by Tom’s.
> 
>  **Liquorice Wands:** I can’t remember any mention in canon of any of Ginny’s candy preferences, and a quick Google didn’t reveal anything to me. I chose liquorice wands because they seemed like they might appeal to Tom.


	4. Year Five

How do you tell your family that you're possessed? Ginny didn't manage it last time, though she tried. How do you tell your family that you're not who they thought you were, not who you thought you were?

_You don't._

Tom Riddle's voice is so obvious now that she knows it's him.

_Why would you tell them? They'll never understand, anyway, and why would you need to? Haven't we been fine together for all these years?_

No one else could have a voice so smooth, so reasonable. It's a voice that strangles roosters and calls forth monsters. She imagines that the snake-like Stan must have had a voice like that when he charmed that muggle woman into eating his poisoned apples.

_… What?_

Stan! The evil muggle in the garden!

_Could you mean Satan?_

That could be it. Ginny never claimed to be an expert on muggles, after all.

_And what poisoned apples?_

Or perhaps they were rotten or wormy. Ginny can't quite remember… There was some reason the muggle lady wasn't meant to eat them, anyway.

_How very literal the magical world is. All evil comes marked with some physical sign._

Tom Riddle hadn't come marked. He'd been handsome, charming, perfect.

_I also wasn't evil. Cruel, yes, but not evil. Not then. Not yet._

And the apples in the muggle story? They were supposed to be evil?

_They were a temptation. Forbidden, but desired, and more desired because they were forbidden._

But were they evil?

_I suppose that's a matter of perspective._

And was Tom Riddle evil? He'd made Ginny do evil, terrible things. Surely that meant he was evil.

_In First Year, when I was bound to the diary, I made you do terrible things, yes. What have I done that's so evil since then?_

Ginny fought against You Know Who and his worst Death Eaters. Ginny protected Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, You Know Who's greatest enemy. Ginny stood up against Umbridge, who was arguably at the very least an ally of You Know Who's passively if not actively. Ginny did all of these things, and Tom Riddle made no move to stop her.

_I helped._

But that makes no sense. Why would You Know Who fight against himself?

_It wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to be like this. I never wanted to be like this._

Tom Riddle has been repeating those and similar sentiments, over and over again. He sounds bewildered and betrayed.

Ginny is starting to believe him.

* * *

Ginny doesn’t tell her family.

She doesn’t tell anyone.

* * *

Ginny is the seventh child of her parents, and the only girl. This means that she is subjected to embarrassments and humiliations unknown by her brothers.

_Having to take a turn in the kitchen is hardly the sort of torture you’re making it out to be._

None of Ginny’s brothers were ever forced to learn to cook. In fact, even the ones who’d been interested in cooking had been chased out of the kitchen by Mum. But Ginny, who had neither the inclination nor any particular skill, was nevertheless stood at the counter all summer long every summer in an endless cycle of chopping and stirring and basting and mashing. And what did the boys do? They got to degnome the garden!

_Disgusting. I admit, being forced to work in kitchens brings back some unpleasant memories for me, but at least it isn’t filthy._

Meanwhile, Mum yatters on about this and that and shows Ginny wand movements and spells that she isn’t strictly supposed to be performing out of school but doesn’t care to even if she could.

_Her voice is grating. I could quiet her, you know. It wouldn’t hurt her, and she wouldn’t notice._

And the temptation begins. Tom Riddle and his wormy apples.

_Where’s the harm?_

“Mum, can’t I go outside? I’ve finished all the chopping.”

_You haven’t done the spring onions. Also, your chopping is atrocious._

Mum comes over and peers down at the counter. “Where are the spring onions?”

“ _Mum_ , really?”

Mum sighs, exasperated. “Once they’re finished, I suppose you can go. Honestly, children these days! I’m sure I never complained anywhere near as much about doing my chores.”

“I could degnome the garden.”

“Ron’s doing that.”

“I could rehang the attic door.”

“Fred and George are doing that. What are you even talking about? Anyway, how are you ever going to impress a young wizard if you can’t cook?”

Ginny grinds her teeth.

_Harry can cook. Can’t he?_

Ginny resentfully turns back to the chopping board.

_Let me._

No matter how frustrated and furious she is—and oh is she ever—she’s not going to let Dark Lord Jr. mess around with Mum’s brain. Merlin knows it’s in a precarious enough state as it is.

_Not that. Let me do the chopping._

That sounds… like a terrible idea. Ginny still remembers—or, more factually and relevantly, _doesn’t_ remember—her first year, when she would wake up in a dress streaked with chicken’s blood and no idea how she’d gotten there.

_I wouldn’t have to block you out. We could both be there, I would just be the one with motor control. You could take it back._

How could she trust to that sort of promise? What reassurances could he even offer her? Why would he ever think that she would be willing to put herself in that sort of danger?

“Ginny, dear, the onions. Chop, chop!”

...It’s true, there are worse things than death and possession. Ginny sighs. If Tom Riddle agrees to just chop the onions with her, then she supposes that’s fine.

_Chop, chop._

Tom’s voice is cheery in her mind. It’s strange, too… she remembers the feeling that she was sinking, before, with the world just fading away around her, but when Tom takes control this time, she still feels like herself. She still feels her arms and muscles moving, she feels the knife in her hand—though the grip, the grip is different—and though she’s not consciously aware of telling her body to move the way it is, it somehow still feels as though she’s the one making the decisions, just… with a different part of her mind than usual.

_I’m not just a foreign invader, the way I was in your first year. I’m a part of you. I feel with you, I breath with you. At first, I didn’t even know I wasn’t you. The backlash of my… migration, it was very jarring. It took me some time to remember myself._

But even back then, she’d been able to feel him. She knows that now, knows that not all of the overwhelming emotions, the confusion, the mismatched memories, the gut reactions… not all of those had come from her.

“Why, Ginny! They’re perfect! I knew you could do it, if you only tried!”

Ginny looks down at the cutting board, at the tidy, uniform spring onions. “Thanks, Mum!” she hears herself say. “Am I all finished, then?”

“Oh, I suppose so. Off you go, then!”

Ginny smiles at her mum. It’s a calm, confident smile that she started wearing back in her second year at Hogwarts, one that she’s been using more and more frequently as she’s gotten older.

Is it because Tom is getting stronger? Is he becoming more dominant over her mind? Or is it that, even as he becomes powerful and aware enough to be a distinct voice in her mind, he’s becoming more and more a part of her, as the vessel provides form to the substance within.

_Weren’t you going to take over again?_

Ginny—Ginny thinks it might be nice to simply rest for a while.

_If you’re sure._

Ginny isn’t sure about anything. Not anymore.

* * *

Dating Michael had been amusing and bland last year, but that was before she’d become aware that the antagonistic echoes ringing through her mind were actually impressions made by a different person. Dating Dean with Tom Riddle in her head is… awkward.

_Why are you even wasting your time on him?_

Ginny likes Dean. She likes him a lot. Friendly, funny, sweet, handsome—not bad for a second boyfriend.

Tom _really_ doesn’t like Dean.

Tom has been coming forward more and more—sitting through some of her classes, studying in the library, socialising in the Slug Club—while she rests, aware but passive. There have been times when Ginny hasn’t been quite certain as to who was in charge; they were both there, thinking and moving seamlessly.

And then, whenever Dean is nearby, Tom retreats into the depths of Ginny’s mind, sulking and determinedly ignoring the outside world. When Ginny reminisces about the feeling of Dean’s tongue sliding through her mouth or his hands stroking her thighs just above the bottom of her skirt, Tom throws a hissy fit and hides himself away again.

_You mean that I issue dignified and logical objections to being subjected to those nauseating memories._

Ginny wonders if her growing mental discipline has any benefits. Surely the ability to warn a part of her mind that she’s going to be busy daydreaming about her boyfriend has to be useful to something.

_Occlumency, perhaps._

Yes, something like that.

And then, Ginny isn’t dating Dean anymore.

Then, Ginny is dating Harry instead.

Lovely Harry. Sweet Harry. Perfect Harry.

And Tom is no longer interested in nor willing to hide in the recesses of her mind while she spends time with her boyfriend. Now, Tom wants _in_.

When Ginny is with Harry, she’s no longer Ginny Weasley. She isn’t Tom Riddle, either. She’s something else. Something plural. Something dangerous.

“Harry,” begins Ginny hesitantly.

“Hmm?”

They’re lying curled up against each other on a couch in the Gryffindor common room, ostensibly studying for their respective classes, but primarily simply enjoying the silence and one another’s warmth.

“Would you still be, you know, interested in me if I were back to the way I was in First Year?” she asks.

Harry blinks at her.

Harry isn’t as wild and furious as he’d been the year before, but he’s still as intense as he’s always been, even in leisure. Ginny knows that his cool, green stare is widely considered to be discomfiting—even creepy—but she also knows that the shadows he holds within are all cast from the outside. His darkness, what there is of it, is nothing to be afraid of.

“You mean,” says Harry slowly, “if you were terribly shy around me? Or if you were running around possessed by Voldemort, opening the Chamber of Secrets?”

Ginny shrugs uncomfortably, averting her eyes. “The second one.”

Harry laughs. “Well, that’s alright, then. If you were shy, that’d be a deal-breaker, but I think between the two of us, we can handle the odd possession, don’t you?”

Ginny can’t bring herself to smile, and Harry sighs. “It’s a strange question, Gin. I’m not sure how to answer it seriously. I’m not sure what you’re thinking of. But if you were in trouble, of course I wouldn’t stop liking you. Of course I’d try to help you.”

“It’s not—” Ginny makes a face. “What I mean is, I spent a whole year with—him. He changed me. There are parts of me that are like him.”

“I’ve spent my whole life with him, it seems,” says Harry, nodding at her slowly. “He’s left his mark in me too.”

Ginny feels a rush of delight flood through her, and she quickly shoves it down, willing Tom to please shush. If it was from Tom. Was it from Tom? Somehow, the thought of sharing this with Harry, having been possessed by the same person, it feels… it feels filthy. And delicious. Filthy and delicious, and Ginny’s not sure that feeling is coming from Tom at all. “He wasn’t all bad,” she says.

Harry smiles at her with shadowed eyes. “No. I suppose not.”

* * *

“Harry,” says Ginny, a week later. They’re walking together by the lake, hand-in-hand.

_Stop this. It’s perfectly reasonable for couples—couples still in school, I might add—to keep secrets from one another. And this is hardly such a huge one._

Two people sharing a single body, and one of those people being the teenaged Lord Voldemort? How is that not a huge secret?

_It’s not one that will ever harm him, is it? In the interests of practicality, we are the same person, are we not? And though we have our disagreements, you and I, I will always keep him safe, just as you will._

“Ginny,” says Harry. He smiles at her, but he seems distracted, just as he has ever since he returned from Dumbledore’s office last night.

“Would you still like me if I were two people?” Ginny blurts out.

_...What. Don’t you dare tell him._

Ginny hasn’t told anyone. She’s not going to tell Harry. But maybe she can plant the seeds…

Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile settles into something more real. “I… have no idea how to respond to that,” he says.

Ginny licks her lips. “When… when I was possessed…”

Just like that, Harry’s eyes darken again, and he looks away.

Ginny winces. She knows Tom is right, and that she should just drop this, but… she also doesn’t want to lie to Harry—wonderful Harry. And she knows that Tom wants, desperately, to be known by him, despite the impossibility of that ever working out in his favour. “I just mean, what if I were always like that?”

Harry’s lips compress. “Just like I said before, I would still like you, and I’d do everything in my power to get you out of it.”

“But what if I wasn’t doing anything? Not strangling roosters, not opening the Chamber of Secrets, not… not anything. What then?”

Harry snorts. “A friendly possession? Is even that possible?” His lips are curled nearly into a sneer.

Ginny swallows. “I don’t know, just… Sometimes, I feel as though he never left me. I feel as though I still hold a piece of him within me. So… What if I were two people?”

Harry stiffens and doesn’t answer. They continue their slow trek around the link, circling back toward the school.

Finally, as they’re nearing the main entrance, Harry says abruptly, “I suppose I couldn’t blame you, if that were the case.” He looks at her, his green eyes as cold as the Arctic Ocean. “After all, that would make two of us. Or four of us.”

He pulls away from her then to make his way into the castle alone.

Ginny stands by the doors for a long moment.

_So, he’s still bound to m—to the Dark Lord. That would explain the dreams, and the visions._

Ginny shudders. The thought of those red eyes and that alien face seeing her private moments with Harry…

_Four of us, indeed._

* * *

Harry finds her again later that evening.

“I’m sorry for blowing up at you, earlier,” he says. “I know you’re still trying to work through what happened to you back then, it’s just… your questions hit a little close to home, I suppose.”

Ginny brushes her hair out of her eyes and winces when her fingers get hopelessly tangled in red, wiry strands halfway through. “I get it. It just feels as though we have this in common. As though you’re the only person who could understand.”

Harry smiles at her oddly. “Yes,” he says. “You, me, and Voldemort. Bosom buddies.”

“No, no,” Ginny insists. “You, me, snakey Voldemort, and cute Voldemort!”

_Rude._

Harry snorts a laugh and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Right, yeah,” he says drily. “My mistake.”

Ginny reaches out and slides her hand into his pocket to twine her fingers with his. She has to step in close to do it, and she’s grown tall enough now that she has to look down to meet his eyes. She likes it that way.

_We both do._

Harry inhales sharply and turns bright red.

Ginny experimentally nudges her hand over a little, and Harry clears his throat and carefully pulls her hand from his pocket and simply holds it in his own.

Tom has no body, but somehow he still manages to pout.

“Thank you, Ginny,” says Harry seriously, and Ginny feels her heart swell and fall at the same time.

Harry shouldn’t be thanking her, but how wonderful it is to have him do it.

When their lips meet, Ginny is elated. Tom is elated.

Surely, if both Ginny and Tom agree on something, this can’t be a bad decision?

_Surely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Genesis allusions:** I understand why JKR might have chosen not to touch on this topic in her books, but I find it extremely difficult to buy the idea that there aren’t religious conflicts between incoming muggleborns and purebloods. At the very least, muggle religion must be very confusing to the long-term denizens of the magical world; after all, any religion or belief that isn’t one’s own tends to be confusing. I used this HC conflict as a medium for Ginny and Tom’s first philosophical debate.
> 
>  **Molly:** This isn’t meant to be overly critical of Molly. I admit that I’m not a big fan of hers, but I wrote her the way I did because in the books, she seems to be the embodiment of the stereotypical British home-maker—traditional to a fault, at least based on the ways she treats Hermione and Fleur. Whatever her opinions are on feminism in general, it always seemed to me that her hopes for her future daughters-in-law and _especially_ for her only daughter are that they’ll take after her in interests and in domesticity. That has to irk Ginny.


	5. Year Six

Ginny’s sixth year of Hogwarts is a war, inside of Hogwarts and out.

Ginny’s sixth year of Hogwarts is a war, inside of Ginny and out.

_You’re being absurd._

There is a reason that Dark Magic is illegal. It may be convenient to sacrifice her morals during wartime, but Ginny is in Gryffindor for a reason.

_Yes, because you’re small-minded, reckless, and fool-hardy._

Small-minded, says the muggle-hater, the muggleborn-hater. That sounds like the snake is calling the lion scaley.

_Firstly, that metaphor makes no sense. Secondly, Dark Magic is a term that has been arbitrarily applied to magic with no definitive criteria, no guidelines, no sense beyond the administration in power at any given time wanting to limit the power of their enemies._

War upon war has been fought against Dark Wizards. Tom can tell Ginny that history is written by the victors all he wants. The war her grandparents fought, the war her parents fought, the war she and her family are fighting right now—that’s a war against evil people doing evil things with evil magic.

_I’m not denying the existence of evil people. I knew many even before my first year of Hogwarts. I’m not denying that evil deeds are being committed by evil people right now. I am arguing that they are! I am arguing that we aren’t doing enough to stop them!_

Ginny knows, deeply and profoundly, that becoming evil isn’t the way to stop it.

_Casting a spell that some farce of a minister made illegal a hundred years ago because it was the signature spell of his rival is hardly what’s going to make you become evil. Magic, be it Dark or otherwise, is a tool. Our intent in using it is what makes it evil, not the spell itself._

What good could come from the Killing Curse? What good could come from the Cruciatus Curse?

_The so-called Unforgivable Curses are rather an extreme start to the argument, but fine. Many curses can cause certain death with the right intent. Why is a curse that makes that death painless such a terrible thing?_

It’s terrible because that’s all it’s good for. Other curses have other purposes, but the Killing Curse only has one.

_I’m hardly the person to disdain a fear of death, but even I can think of worse fates. I’ve arguably lived one._

Tom Marvolo Riddle is the rudest person on the planet. Ginny could be researching ways to exorcise him right now rather than pandering to him, and all he does is call existing with her a fate worse than death.

_I meant the diary, you absurd thing._

Ginny is slightly mollified.

_Won’t you even listen? Let me describe the curses, what they’re used for, when and supposedly why they were made illegal. Then we can decide together whether or not to use them. Fair?_

Ginny hesitates. They wouldn’t be able to share these curses with the rest of the student body, not if there would be any chance of them being recognised as Dark magic. But perhaps, if they really weren’t that bad… If she could learn to cast them silently…

_I can, and so you can. We’re the same, remember?_

They argue all the time, and yet… It does feel as though they’re the same. Even knowing who it is who’s sharing her mind and body, Ginny sometimes still feels as though she’s simply arguing with herself. When she and Tom agree, it feels as though she’s weighed all the pros and cons and come to a decision. Like she’s performing a reliability check on all her actions to make sure she’s not making any mistakes.

She supposes that she can at least hear Tom out.

_Thank you. Now, I have one in particular in mind for dealing with our charming friend Amycus. If we do it right, he should have trouble being able to recognise who’s around him…_

* * *

Ginny isn’t really certain what Tom’s goal is, these days. He’s fighting Death Eaters and protecting children at Hogwarts—not that there are any muggleborn children here, these days—and it seems completely against the agenda he’d once held for himself.

_Because my previous life goals turned out so well._

He’d failed before. Is his new plan to simply be more subtle? Perhaps enter the political sphere as a war hero?

_Well, now, don’t we think highly of ourselves? But, no. I certainly intend to engage in politics, but not right away, and not directly._

What is she doing, allowing him to continue to exist, when his goals haven’t changed at all?

_Haven’t you been listening to me at all? My goals have changed a great deal._

Ginny sneers, and the students sitting across from her at the Gryffindor table jump in surprise. 

Perhaps Tom will only advocate for the total exclusion of muggleborns from the wizarding world, rather than their executions. How generous.

_I want to educate muggleborns, actually. Teach them about the wizarding world and its customs. What’s so bad about that?_

Brainwashing! Forced assimilation! Cultural death!

 _How dare you hurl those words at me, you pureblood of the Sacred 28. You have no idea what it’s like being a muggleborn, coming into a new world with no guidance and no money to purchase books to ease your way. I bet if you asked any of your muggleborn friends—I bet if you asked_ Harry _—he would agree with me. Muggleborns and those raised as them, we came into this world intending to stay, intending to fit in. You who would deny muggleborns lessons in pureblood culture are just as instrumental in their oppression as those who would deny them entry at all._

What aspects of wizarding culture would they even need to know? Surely it isn’t that different from the muggle world. They can pick it up as they go along, and everything. They seem to be doing fine.

_Spoken like someone who has never even set foot into the muggle world. Everything is different. Basic actions, basic tools, basic knowledge, basic manners… There are more differences than similarities. The muggleborns are drowning, and you and your arrogant allies the ones drowning them._

Ginny puts down her fork and stares down at her plate. She wonders if any of that is true. She wonders how Hermione, or Harry, or Dean, or Colin, how any of them would have reacted if she’d ever broached the topic of a course on wizarding culture to them.

But there’s no one she can ask. Not anymore.

She wonders if it would really be that bad, teaching a cultural class to incoming muggleborns. It could be optional. And just knowing how wizards do things wouldn’t mean that they wouldn’t be allowed to do muggle things, too. So it wouldn’t really be like they would be forced to give up one culture in exchange for the other, right? Or would it?

Ginny’s head feels like it’s splitting open.

_Ideally, everyone would take the course, before and during Hogwarts. You have no idea, the difficulty of trying to learn content information about subjects you didn’t even know existed, while also trying to learn how to write a legible sentence that isn’t a blurry, smudged mess._

Had Tom not known how to write before coming to Hogwarts? Was that common in the muggle world back then?

_I knew how to write, but not with a quill. Muggles don’t use them. They use pens with self-distributing ink. Much tidier and easier to use._

But… that’s brilliant!

_Do you understand better now? How different these worlds are?_

She understands a little, maybe. At least, she understands that muggleborns should have the option of being able to access the information if they want. They should have the choice.

_There, you see? We agree. I want lessons for muggleborns. I want to strengthen the Statute of Secrecy, to further the protection of the magical world. I want more logical, clearly stated guidelines put into place as to what defines Dark magic and its legalities. Now you know. Are my political plans so very putrid?_

Ginny isn’t sure. Ginny isn’t sure about a lot of things, these days.

* * *

Lord Voldemort’s campaign rose in the halls of Hogwarts more than fifty years ago. Tidily enough, Hogwarts also where his campaign dies.

There is a battle, there is death. As Ginny walks through the corridors after the fighting has ended, she sees corpses that make her stomach wrench, corpses that make her feel a cold satisfaction, and corpses for which she feels nothing at all.

And then there’s her brother.

It’s almost worse to look at George than it is to look at Fred’s empty body. George moves like a puppet with cut strings, his eyes blank. Even beyond that, it’s disorientating to look at him, stood there like an incomplete painting without his twin to add the finishing touches.

She crowds together with her remaining family. Mum and Dad are both crying, and Percy’s face looks like—Ginny doesn’t know what it looks like, but it’s awful.

Tom gently slides forward, and Ginny retreats into the warmth left behind by her brothers’ and parents’ arms around her.

“Percy,” says Tom, leaning up to whisper into Percy’s ear as they all pull away from one another. Ginny is tall, but to reach the ear of her tallest brother, she has to stand on her tip-toes.

“Ginny,” says Percy tonelessly.

Tom squeezes Percy’s shoulder hard enough for Percy to flinch back. “I know what you’re thinking. A lot of things are your fault, Percy, but this wasn’t. You’ve been awful enough; there’s no need to carry more blame than the hefty bit that you already deserve.”

Percy stares back, his face waxen. Ginny nearly shoves Tom away, but then some of the tension bleeds out of Percy, and he nods very slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind,” is all he says.

Ginny isn’t eager to take up the reigns again, so Tom wanders around the Great Hall, keeping to the outskirts of the embracing families, and nodding unsmilingly whenever eye contact is made.

He spends a long while taking in the site where Lord Voldemort had finally fallen. “Ding dong, the witch is dead,” he says. Ginny’s hands are clenched into fits in her robe pockets.

“Pardon?”

Hermione is standing behind Ginny, her head tilted to one side enquiringly.

Ginny jumps. “Hermione! I thought you were off with—” She can’t quite bring herself to say his name, and so she just trails off and looks away.

“Harry and Ron? Yes. What was that you were saying?”

“It’s a muggle saying, I think? At least, I’ve heard it from muggleborns,” says Tom smoothly. “I’m not really sure what it means, it just… felt like something to say.”

“Hmm,” says Hermione, and she turns her gaze to the scene of the final duel as well.

Hermione looks terrible. She’s exhausted, and she’s lost weight. Her hair is a tangled mess, her robes are covered in grime, and her eyes are red and trailing tear tracks. 

“Ding dong,” says Hermione.

Ginny bites her lip. “He’s really gone? For—for good?”

Yes, Hermione looks terrible, but as Ginny studies her profile, she can’t help but feel that there is something fierce about the teenager standing behind her.

_She’s not a schoolgirl any longer, nor a mere fighter. She’s a warrior. A hero._

“He’s gone. For good.”

Ginny wonders, in a way she’s not sure she’s ever really wondered before, if Tom is alright.

_Half of me is dead, but I’ve been cut off from that half for fifty years. It shouldn’t make a difference._

But does it?

Hermione turns back to Ginny. “Come on, then. It’s time to leave.” She holds out her hand for Ginny, and Ginny takes it and squeezes it tightly. Hermione squeezes back.

_I don’t know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's all in her head:** Here, have an entire chapter of philosophical discussions. It should, I hope, provide a glimpse into how Ginny’s personal ethics got to the point that she was willing to practise necromancy in Liminality.
> 
>  **Cultural Integration Courses:** In another of my Tomarry fics (Nemo), I touched very, very briefly on the use of forced cultural integration classes as a tool of the systematic oppression of muggleborns. Here, I’ve brought up the other end of the spectrum, which is the absolutely absurd way that muggleborn children in canon are just dumped blindly into the magical world. It’s like being sent to another country and expected to do everything in another language without being given any of the resources needed to learn that language. It’s not that immersion isn’t a great way to learn, but the sink-or-swim method of learning works a lot better when actual swimming instructions have happened at some point.


	6. Year Seven

Even as she’s living it, Ginny barely remembers anything about her 7th year. It seems fitting, somehow, that her final year at Hogwarts should mirror her first year in this way. But this time, her haziness isn’t because she’s possessed by a mad teenager—though she is, she absolutely still is. There’s something about this postbellum state that makes going about normal activities, acting like a normal human, feel like she’s acting a part in a play. Any moment now, the curtain will fall, and Alecto Carrow will be smiling at her from the shadows, her wand already raised.

But that never happens. Instead, she attends her classes, she smiles at her friends, she sits her NEWTs, and everything is normal as normal should be.

When she goes home to the rebuilt Burrow, everything is normal there, too.

“Ginny, you get the sides started while I handle the roast, there’s a love.”

Ginny’s birthday is so late in the summer that she’d barely been able to celebrate being able to use magic at home last year. Regardless, this is not how she would choose to use her new legality. Even with magic, she still hates cooking.

Fortunately, not all of her feels the same.

Tom smiles at Mum, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Are you sure you trust me that far?” he asks. Ginny always thinks that, even with the same voice, there should be some inflection, some intonation, _something_ that sounds different from her when Tom is in complete control. But even she herself can hear nothing. Tom sounds like her. Tom is her. Just another side of her. “You’re a brave witch, Mum.”

Mum laughs, shaking her head. “Oh, you’ve gotten so much better in the past few years. I still remember how you were as a child… I can’t understand how you got such good marks in potions and yet couldn’t keep a soup from curdling!”

“It’s not all the same,” Tom says.

Tom and Mum continue to make pleasant small talk while they cook together, but Ginny doesn’t really listen until she hears Mum say, “—And I’ll need your help on Sunday, of course. You know that Bill and Fleur are coming over for brunch.”

“No, Mum, I have tryouts on Sunday, remember?” says Ginny, and she feels that wave of disorientation that comes whenever she and Tom have very different feelings about something. It comes less and less often, these days.

“Oh, you’re not still doing that, are you? Surely you can take a break, spend a little time at home,” says Mum.

Ginny knows what Mum is really saying. Mum doesn’t want Ginny to work. Mum wants Ginny to stay at the Burrow until a suitable wizard appears to ask for her hand in marriage, at which time she’ll go live with him and make a million—or at least seven—redheaded, green-eyed babies.

At least Mum and Ginny agree on the preferred suitor.

Ginny smiles tightly at Mum. Even Tom is irritated at the renewed topic, for all his disdain toward the sport and occupation. He doesn’t want to be idle anymore than Ginny does, and they have plans in place to keep them both occupied and on track to their goals.

“I still am, yes,” she says, keeping her voice calm as Tom turns back toward the cutting board and picks up the knife again. It’s easier to suppress her irritation when she’s no longer looking directly at Mum. “This Sunday’s tryouts are for my first-choice team, so of course I’m going.”

From near the kitchen door, a voice says, “With the Harpies, right? Congratulations.”

Mum and Ginny both jump.

“Harry, dear, I didn’t know you were coming over tonight!” says Mum, glowing with joy. She rushes over to him to wrap him in a hug. “How have you been? Oh, it’s been ages!”

Harry tentatively hugs her back. He’s not very good at physical displays of affection, Ginny knows. Or any displays of affection, really. But he seems worse now than he has been for years.

Ginny hasn’t seen him since the trials after the Battle of Hogwarts last year. To be fair, no one had seen him for months after the trials. He simply disappeared one day, and all Ron and Hermione would say or write on the subject was that he needed some time to himself. Ginny was already back at Hogwarts by the time Harry reappeared.

When Mum finally lets him go, Harry says, “I’m sorry for not calling ahead,” which is such a strange turn of phrase. Ginny assumes he means a fire call in the Floo, but it’s still an odd way to put it. “I hope you don’t mind me just showing up like this.”

“Oh, not at all, dear, not at all! Why don’t you go keep Arthur company while we women finish up in the kitchen?”

Ginny grimaces, and Harry sees. His eyes brighten in a smile. She looks away, feeling—she doesn’t really know what she’s feeling right now. Something, though.

“Is there anything I can do to help? It looks like Ginny has a mountain of potatoes to deal with over there.”

It’s very clear from Mum’s brief silence that she’s struggling between her instinctive belief that men do not belong in her kitchen and her desire to forward her plans for grandchildren. The grandchildren win. “What a lovely thought, dear. Ginny, why don’t you show Harry how to peel a potato?”

Harry comes up beside her, moving slowly. “Is this okay?” he asks softly.

Ginny nods, not looking up.

Harry hesitates, but he picks up a potato. “I admit, although I’ve peeled more potatoes than I can count, I’ve never done it with magic before. How does this work? What’s the spell?”

“There are spells, certainly,” says Tom. “But they’re guided by intentions. If you know how to do it by hand, it shouldn’t be hard to convert that to a spell. You simply hold the potato in one hand and imagine the potato being peeled. You imagine it in such detail that you can almost feel yourself peeling it. Let your wand mimic the movements of the knife. And then—yes, like that.”

“Hmm,” says Harry. “It’s easier than I thought. Or maybe you’re just that good of a teacher.” He looks up at Ginny from beneath his mess of black hair.

Ginny shrugs. “It took me ages to get it right, so I’ve heard just about every explanation possible at this point.”

Harry laughs. “Oh yeah?” They work in silence for a moment, while Mum hovers in the background. “So the Harpies? That’s pretty great.”

“I’m not in yet.”

“Ron says your chances are excellent.”

Ginny allows herself a tiny smile. “Yeah.”

“I’m just about finished with auror training now, even though I started so late,” says Harry. He doesn’t mention where he was or what he was doing. His mouth twists. “Fast-tracked.”

Ginny looks at him. At his ducked head, his tense shoulders. “Have you considered that you were fast-tracked because you deserve it, and not because you’re the Chosen Boy Who Lived?” asks Tom.

Harry shrugs uncomfortably. “I mean, the training isn’t that hard. I’m not sure why everyone is expected to take as long as they do.”

Ginny snorts. “Or maybe it’s just that you’ve already experienced a lot of this training living a life on the run from Dark wizards?” she says, prodding him with her elbow.

“I guess?” says Harry, flushing a little.

Ginny grins at him, and they turn back to their tasks together as the mood relaxes around them.

Dinner at the Burrow isn’t the loud madhouse it once was, even with Ron, Harry, Hermione, and George in attendance, but it isn’t the frozen, stilted affair that it had been the previous summer, either.

Afterwards, Harry follows Ginny outside, and they stand together watching the stars begin to show.

“I, er—I still like you, Ginny,” says Harry. It’s hard to make out his face in the growing darkness, but Ginny suspects he’s probably bright red.

_Finally._

Ginny smiles. “I still like you, too, Harry,” she replies easily.

Harry clears his throat nervously. “I’m not really ready for much right now. It’s been a struggle to… to get back into the swing of things, I guess. But, if you’re interested, maybe we could… Date? Sometimes?”

_Smooth, he is not._

Tom’s fondness rises and mingles with her own.

“I’m interested,” she says.

Harry breathes in sharply. “And… it’ll be different now, I promise. I’m just me, now.”

Ginny frowns at him.

“I mean, you know how we used to always joke, oh, Voldemort is a part of us? Well, it’s just me, now. So you wouldn’t have to worry about me suddenly going around the bend again, or—yeah. You’d just be dating me. Harry Potter.”

Ginny looks away. She doesn’t know what to say, and Tom is equally silent. Finally, she whispers, “I can’t really say the same.”

“Ginny—” Harry hesitates, and then he reaches out to carefully gather her in his arms. She holds him back much less carefully, and he stiffens, then relaxes slowly. “Ginny, you’ll be alright. We’ll be alright. He’s gone now.”

“He was just a memory, he said,” says Tom. “I suppose that’s truer than ever now.”

“Memories only have the power that we give them,” says Harry firmly.

Ginny closes her eyes. “I’ve given these memories a lot of power.” She continues quickly, before he can respond. “And I don’t regret it, either.”

Harry strokes his hand through her hair. The moment is slightly ruined when his hand gets caught in the tangles, and they both laugh. “That’s fair, I suppose.”

“I like you, Harry Potter,” says Ginny. “And the Tom Riddle who lives in my head likes you, too.”

Harry laughs against her neck. “Does he? I’m, er, flattered, I guess.”

_You should be. I’m not known for liking people, after all._

Ginny pulls away a little so that she can look down into Harry’s eyes. “So, it’s just you, me, and cute Voldemort, then? I can live with that.”

Harry grins at her. “Sure,” he says fondly. “Just the ‘three’ of us.”

_Just the three of us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tinny:** The intention was always for Tom and Ginny to start this fic out functioning effectively as one person (when Tom was an unconscious part of Ginny) and end functioning effectively as one person, with a bit in the middle where Tom’s regained consciousness pulled them apart. As they become more used to one another, more accepting of one another, it’s becoming harder and harder for them to tell themselves apart.


	7. After

Ginny makes the team. Tom makes friends.

It should have been impossible, to see their wildly different dreams through, as though one body could exist in two places at once. And yet, they’re managing, somehow. Ginny goes to practice, moves up in the ranks, plays as a replacement player, moves up in the ranks, plays on the first string. And after she drags her bruised and exhausted body home, Tom spends the evenings pouring over legal documentation, sending letters, and spending time with carefully selected people with carefully selected connections to witches and wizards with political sway.

Tom makes considerable headway placing foundations for some of his farther-reaching goals, but perhaps his greatest behind-the-scenes success to date was when he said to Hermione over casual drinks, “Is it true that you didn’t know how to write with a quill before coming to Hogwarts? Wow! You’d think there’d be a class for that or something!”

All he had to do then was lean back and watch Hermione single-handedly move mountains.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” asks Harry, his eyebrows raised. He looks around the ministry atrium as though expecting dark wizards to spring up from behind the worn Health and Safety posters decorating the walls.

Ginny frowns at him, mock severely. “What’s this? Can’t a witch pick her wizard up from work and spirit him off to a romantic date?”

Harry quirks a grin. “That depends. Is the witch paying? She’s the famous Quidditch player. I’m just a lowly ministry employee.”

“I suppose I could be persuaded to cover the tab,” says Tom, and Ginny’s eyes fall to half mast. “But I might expect to walk you home if I do.”

Harry snorts a laugh and follow’s Ginny out of the ministry. “You’ve been ‘walking me home’ after nearly every date we’ve been on, so I suppose that might be a reasonable enough expectation,” Harry answers dryly. Despite his seeming nonchalance, his cheeks are slightly flushed, and Tom is so smug about it that Ginny almost rolls her eyes.

_I wonder how he’d react to a bouquet._

Ginny flashes Harry a grin to cover up the sudden wistfulness that washes over her.

“Next time, I’ll bring you flowers,” she promises, feeling strange.

“That’s fine,” says Harry breezily. “I’m rather fond of peonies, just so you know.”

Tom huffs out a delighted laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

Dating Harry is amazing.

Or at least, it’s usually amazing.

It’s sometimes amazing.

_It’s always amazing. What are you complaining over? Haven’t you been in love with him for nearly half your life? You have. It was your crush that made me think of him this way in the first place, back when I couldn’t tell your feelings from mine, and it was your crush that gave me a context for my own emotions when I finally started to become aware of myself again._

Ginny is in love with Harry. Tom is in love with Harry. One or both of them is in love with Harry.

_What’s the difference?_

Ginny is Ginny, and Tom is Tom, but there’s only one body between them. And so, no matter where the emotions come from, there’s only one heart to race, only one stomach to twist, only ten toes to curl. What’s felt by one of them is felt by both of them. So does it matter where the emotions come from?

It didn’t used to, really. But as months pass, and years pass, Ginny starts to think that maybe it does.

Ginny has grown used to Tom always being a part of her, but she starts to wonder whether or not it has to be this way. Could they build a body for Tom? Grant him full autonomy? Is that even possible?

_Unlikely. At least, not with the sort of spells you’d be willing to use._

That’s not fair, though. Ginny had agreed to learning and casting illegal dark spells during the war, and Ginny has been researching dark magic with Tom since they left school. Ginny isn’t an innocent little girl anymore. She knows what good and evil are, and she’s confident in her ability to work out which is which.

_These spells would be darker. Much darker. You balked at the idea of the Killing Curse. Are you prepared to indulge in human sacrifices?_

They could find other spells, surely, or invent new ones.

_Perhaps._

It isn’t like Tom to not jump on the idea of spell invention. Pushing the boundaries of magic and knowledge is perhaps one of his greatest passions, and yet here he is, turning away from it. She’s so used to perfect, open disclosure between them that it takes her some time to work out what he’s hiding from her.

He’s scared.

She’s known him to be scared before, though he’d hidden it better than she had during the war. But this is a different type of fear.

Lord Voldemort is dead, and he left nothing worthwhile behind. Why should Tom regain his own form? What would he be coming back to? Everything he values in life these days belongs to Ginny. He has little to gain and everything to lose from their separation.

She’d never have thought that she would be the one cajoling Tom Riddle into coming back from the dead rather than the other way around.

It’s not like they’d really be separating, anyway. They’d only be in different bodies, after all. They’ve been one person for so long, that Ginny can’t—refuses to—ever let Tom go, not if she can help it. Tom is a part of her, an extension of her soul.

_Then why does it matter?_

Tom and Ginny want different things. They feel different things. They like different things. They can’t really appreciate those differences now, can’t take advantage of them the way they’d be able to if they had separate bodies.

Tom wouldn’t lose the Weasleys—Ginny would make sure to drag him kicking and screaming into the fold.

Tom wouldn’t lose Harry—Ginny would make sure… she’d make sure…

_What are you even suggesting? A ménage à trois?_

That doesn’t sound terrible, exactly, but it also doesn’t sound exactly like what Ginny wants.

Ginny isn’t sure what she wants, or what Tom wants, or what they both want. That’s the point. That’s the problem.

_I suppose we can at least look into it._

Ginny knows he’s pandering to her, but she also knows that they need to do this. And she knows that they _can_ do this.

Ginny wasn’t sorted into Slytherin, but Tom was, and he’s taught her how to be cunning and ambitious enough to see the impossible come to life.

Tom wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor, but Ginny was, and Ginny knows that she’s taught him how to be brave enough to face this change.

Between the two of them, they can do anything.

-end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> There will be one more part to this series, but I have no ETA on when that will be up. It’ll be a short sequel (post Liminality) from Tom’s POV.


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